Expressions adrift like wildfire,
spreading- unavailable ribbons of safety
ripped from the hands of the just and
given to the hounds of the hill
-M. Taggart
Tag: Freedom
Seven Questions to Ask Yourself
- Who is my favorite me
- Why do I think
- Should I teach myself more
- Would the world be more clear with an additional eye
- What is the wing of a narcissistic society
- Where do I live
- Should I write it all
-M. Taggart
Free from thorns
I don’t always push the
envelope
But when I do
I rip it to fucking shreds
There is no envelope
There never was
-M. Taggart
Be you. Always.
Odd Walking Thoughts-
You can’t always do what you want. But you can do now what you will. Grab the fucking book. Ignore that screaming argument pulling your metallic rage sideways and sit in your best possible spot to read words you’ve been wanting to know. Then raise your glass of I don’t give a fuck and cheers the sun going down. Because no matter what, you will either see the sun again, or it’ll never care enough to wake you up.
-M. Taggart
Poem-
By strife’s design we disallow individual freedom of mind
Carefully staging failures- gaffed as though they truly happened
Stuck in mindful numbness, fear, intolerance of self-worth
And yet we may stand screeching of victory at first light
-M. Taggart
Odd Walking Thoughts- Rise
She paints death alive again. Cement cracked. Who said that? I did. Where’d you get it. I heard it once. The sky raged looking for shelter. Pulling at faces. Where’d you hear it? -In my head. And that’s why I trust her. The foundation of our souls stood upright releasing each of us freely.
-M. Taggart
copyright 2018
Dedicated to my Wife. Megan.
North Woods
I’m giving myself a mulligan.
We rode in my GMC. It’s a truck. We smoked cigars. A lot of them. Some of them were small and some were big. Like the mountains we were driving in. It’s easy to become lost in the North Woods. There are hundreds of miles of wilderness. No lights. You can drive and drive and see nothing but forest and Moose. I capitalized that for fun. Sometimes we would stop and have a beer. We’d get out of the truck and someone might say, “It is time for a beer?” None of us would look at the time.
I love those old roads. The dust. The freedom. I smash my mind thinking I know what real freedom is and how it’ll ruin this writing now but I’ll write it anyway. Freedom is being debt free. That means all debt. And to shed mental debt is the most difficult kind. So, when I drive the old roads, and pull over for the massive logging trucks, and we whistle to the old Golden Road, I am as free as I’m going to be in that moment.
Cheers. I like this one much more.
